Walk Beside Me
by arjuna.bleu
Summary: A fun post Brave New World one shot what-if of Claire and Sylar; unmitigated smut.


"Let's just call this what it is-" Gabriel Gray's voice is a low rumble over the hiss of the air conditioning. He expects to finish but Angela Petrelli cuts in, "I see no reason to be anything but plain. We need your help, Mr. Gray. Your talents are indispensible at this juncture and, with your current turnabout, you are hardly in a position to deny us." Gabriel draws in a sharp angry breath, but catches Peter's warning before an answer forms. "What does he owe you, mom? Because I am pretty sure you took it out of him in a way that no one else would have known existed," Peter tells her bitingly. Angela's eyes never leave Gabriel, though. She is studying him like a scientist with a fresh petri dish of cultures.

"Gabriel," Noah says evenly (and a bit patronizingly), "when Claire exposed herself on national television, she upped the ante for all of us again. Does your father watch television?" Gabriel's dark eyes narrow dangerously at the older man. "How many other individuals out there do you think caught that little spectacle?" Agent Bennet continues smoothly. Peter can see in his friend's eyes the nervous energy, the dangerous edge these two are skating. All the trepidation he had about this moment is coming to a head, and he is about to truly discover who his longtime companion has become. The lanky shadow steadies himself visibly before answering with concise detachment.

"You want me here so you can keep an eye on me, the same reason I want you here... other conditions notwithstanding," he grits out tonelessly. Angela's patience finally snaps, and she responds with a certain terseness of which only Petrellis are capable, "Fine, Gabriel, you want us to admit that you are a danger? That it is impossible for us to _allow_ you to go free?" The former serial killer's hands slam down on the table abruptly, "_Allow_? Do you think you could keep me here against my will?" His snarls vibrate the room, and loose papers fly in wide arcs. Peter cuts in, "Everybody just stop!" Bennet's gun flies into Peter's hand from beneath the table, where it was at-ready.

All eyes turn to Peter, who has paused in his outburst with one hand loosely grasping Bennet's company-issue weapon and the other pinching the bridge of his nose. The gun is a stark contrast to the EMT uniform, and slightly appropriate, considering his partner-in-crime's lifestyle choices. "I have to be at work in twenty minutes," Peter's eyes are closed, his tone clipped, "and the only one of you I trust in this situation is _him_." He gestures toward Gabriel with the down-turned nose of Noah's weapon. "Just cut the crap and tell us what you want," the youngest Petrelli brother growls. Angela sighs, folding her hands together, wrapping fingers together so tightly that the knuckles whiten. "Claire is young, beautiful, appealing, and in immediate danger," she states cryptically.

Gabriel and Peter continue to eye her warily. Noah's eyes are locked on Gabriel's profile, studying his responses. Angela's gaze traces from her son to the man who has had his life turned upside down by her repeatedly, and she continues, "We want you to accompany Claire, masquerading as her business manager, but actually doubling as her body guard." Agent Bennet's jaw is clenched firmly, his face set in a mask. There is a barked scoff from the end of the table but they ignore it. "W-what?" Gabriel cannot help but stutter. Claire's adopted father's voice is so clipped and his face so tense, it is hard to imagine the thoughts accompanying the ground out words, "We want you to set up interviews, demonstrations, and attend events with Claire as her agent with the specific purpose of keeping other specials away from her; specifically empaths."

Despite a plethora of misgivings and a slew of bad ideas, Gabriel nods mutely at the idea. They _want_ him to follow Claire Bennet around. "No," Peter says. "What?" the older Bennet barks incredulously. "Yes," Gabriel answers smoothly. "That's it, then," Angela cuts in just as smoothly. "We'll reconvene in short order to make arrangements. Everyone has a long day ahead of them. Noah, you take Gabriel and escort him to the proper facility. Claire, I will personally oversee your on-the-job training as new public representative of the Petrelli Foundation." There is no pride in her voice, really no emotion at all, and she stalks out of the room quickly with Bennet and her son right at her heels.

Gabriel stares down the long table at the petite woman who has silently overseen this entire conversation with beautiful blonde brows pulled together in the center of her forehead. Her anger is more than a blossom on her cheeks; what he wouldn't give in this moment to be able to read her mind. She rises, pressing the large chair back smoothly. Her lithe movements are not lost on him. He can see her intentions. She leans against the edge of the table, grasping it in both hands tightly, and gets right in his face. "I don't know why they think this is a good idea, but I know better. I don't care what Peter says. You're a monster, and I know that this is just more pretend play for you-character acting. I'm going to make your life a living hell... until I figure out how to kill you," she promises.

Any apologies he might have offered, any slight ammelioration, is lost completely as Angela's expensive pen with its gold accents is embedded in his eye socket. Her tiny fist still wrapped around it, she doesn't appear in the least shocked at the flurry of action from the door or her father barking her name. Angela tells Noah spitefully, "You are going to have to _reign that girl in_." He responds cuttingly, "If I could do anything to reign any of you Petrellis in, we wouldn't have half of these prob-" His statement is cut off by Claire barreling past him, slamming into his side with her shoulder hard. "Fuck all of you," she seethes, storming down the hallway.

It has been a long time since he saw the small apartment where he had resigned himself to a life alone, but it still looks relatively as he left it. Everywhere he touches now, he sees Noah, Elle, and other agents snooping-and underneath that, years of himself wandering back and forth, performing the tasks of the lonely. If no one was ever there to witness his futile endeavor at humanity, then how could it have ever mattered? He dismisses the thought. New man, new life, new job, new suit-all old expectations out the window; onward and upward.

"Why are we here? This place is a hole," Claire whines from near the front door. "I thought you were going to wait in the car," is his petulant response. He joins her, carrying a medium-sized box, and pushes her out the door with it. Her wide eyes indicate that the box is a dead giveaway. She knows. "Wait, I want to see," she tries, but he's already locking the door telekinetically behind them. "Well... damn. What did you get then?" She reaches perfectly manicured hands into his box of private property and comes out with one of his all-time favorite books. He's waiting expectantly for her snide remarks and is surprised when her brows shoot up, and she replaces the book wordlessly.

Head to toe, she is perfectly coiffed in roughly ten thousand dollars worth of fabulous sell-all, from gorgeously glittering earrings to tall spiked heels. Even her hair style was a pretty penny, bright and early that morning. With her long black lashes framing bright green eyes, she looks up at him from in front of his old apartment door. Somehow, it pinches his heart. Her eyes drop back to the box, "No pictures or..." He turns in a huff and takes the stairs by two's to get a leg ahead of her.

An old world copy of an Upton Sinclair novel graces the small table next to the seat in her waiting room. Accompanying the book are a pair of glasses (for show), a glass of Pinot Noir, and his cell phone. It isn't often that he leaves his phone, and that usually cuts his return time by up to three minutes. He is always very punctual. It makes it easy for her, but not as easy as seducing the personal assistant this particular studio has assigned her. One knee up on the dressing table, glitzy gown pulled up over her hips and her breasts thrust proud and bare from above the neckline-this is how he catches her. Right on the brink of grabbing that young man's cock with her _virgin hands_ and showing him how to use it.

It's Sylar she is expecting, so her mouth opens in a round O of shock when Noah Bennet steps through the door. "Daddy," she gasps. Her voice is much smaller than it has been in years. The coffee boy is shocked by her declaration. So shocked that he finds nothing off in the fact that he manages to fix his pants and flee and yet she is still frozen in place. The puppet master's strings are vices at the end of each limb and around her undulating throat. No, this isn't her father. Even without being locked in place, that sneer is far too familiar and not in the least on her father's features.

He circles the table slowly with deliberate steps and she is relieved (momentarily, at least) when he comes back into her line of sight as himself. She finds it impossible to read his expression, and her stomach muscles quiver nervously-painfully aware of how exposed she is. "Now this is fighting dirty," his seductive tone is underwrought with sarcasm. Claire begins to answer, but finds her teeth clenched together and bared to him just like the rest of her. He runs a stretched palm up her flank, dipping his head behind her. "Not even wet," he chuckles.

"What were you doing with that _**boy**_, Claire?" His hand retreats and he leans around her immobile form, brown eyes travelling up her neck to study her periphreal gaze. She can smell his mild cologne-masculine but not overbearing, and it tickles her senses, spreading warmth down her stomach. He brings his face close to hers, whispering low in her ear, "Were you trying to get him killed?" She grunts angrily through her locked snarl. He lets a single breathy chuckle loose, and it causes her blonde wisps to flutter. Her face flushes. Humming, he moves behind her again, slinking to her opposite side and leaning casually on one elbow across the table below her.

His tone has adopted his casual recline as well, "It seems to me, _Claire_, that you know my methodology well enough..." He studies his bitten nails idly, turning his hand back and forth at her stomach height ignoring her bare breasts thrust in his face. "As a matter of fact, I am certain this entire incident is perpetuated around your awareness that I function like clockwork." His bedroom brown eyes raise to hers from between her breasts, just far enough away to keep a heated blush spread over her chest. He says carefully, "Therefore, the only reason for such events would be that you **wanted me to see**."

It is quite easy for him with his long frame to simply lean up to her face. His hot breath ghosts over her tits as he rises causing the nipples to distend and heat to pit in her stomach passionately. She trembles like a leaf in the wind before his eyes. One long pale hand reaches out between them to cup the blonde curls of her mound. There is no disguising the guttural moan it produces low in her throat. He finally gives her voice back to her and she gasps desperately, "No!" His smirk is winning, "Oh, that stings. You know how I feel about rejection, Claire." His hand withdraws, however, leaving her cold and bereft, tingling in sweet agony. "Doesn't taste like 'no,'" he says huskily, making a show of dragging his middle finger with a coating of her juices over his lower lip before snaking his tongue out slowly chasing after it.

His heated breath hovers over her neck and trembling chest for just a moment before he slinks away gracefully with all the slyness of a cat in the dark. He snatches up his tailored black jacket, a perfect compliment to his black-on-black buttondown and silken vest, and tosses it buoyantly over his shoulder, "You know, the next time you want to make a statement about your privacy, think about this: **they gave me permission**." The fire in her eyes as she rises from her ungainly sprawl over the desk, slim tanned arms covering her breasts protectively, shoots a romantic jolt straight down his spine and into his longing loins.

It's his own fault for being so cocky. He does it to himself, every time. He had seen the shining fork in the center of a half-eaten brilliantly crisp fruit salad, but was simply too busy congratulating himself on the fine performance and catching a _taste_ of her... Claire's tiny fist jerks the back of his head with vicious unforgiving force and the fork catches him in the jugular. She stalks out of the dressing room in perfect couture, six inch heels clicking steadily. The personal assistant says nothing even though his eyebrows reach his hairline as he leans his head in the door after Gabriel's exit, contemplating where the man Claire Bennet had identified as her father could have disappeared to and where all this blood could have possibly come from.

The sparkling dark city line is a dramatic backdrop to the soft beige of the room decor, delicate overlighting making golden halos at intervals around the room. Gabriel Gray-casually shadowed and garbed, yet clean shaven-leans on one shoulder in the framed end of the long hall leading into the room. His ever-present smirk and quirked brow is a testimony to his opinion of the scene he is witnessing. Claire's fire seems to never go out anymore, and she lashes out at her grandmother without reserve, "I'm tired of being your show dog! I want to help people! You took me out of the dark, and put me out in front of the world on a leash. How am I supposed to live like this?"

Angela's chin quivers uncharacteristically-perhaps she is getting a little old for the fires of young girls-but her voice is even, "Claire, you have dropped out of high school and college. You have quit every job you have ever had. I refuse to allow you to become this family's black sheep." She reaches a withered hand out to her granddaughter and adds patronizingly, "How do you think people will feel, Claire, when you are doing your Princess Di routine, traipsing through a minefield to visit children who have suffered amputations as a result of their unfortunate circumstances, and you have the opportunity to show everyone just how special you are?" The young blonde snatches her hand away as though stung by it.

"It just never ends with you, does it?" she asks incredulously. Gabriel's nethers tense at the sharp pout of her perfect little mouth, the way her fangs show bright white between as she grits out her fury. Her green eyes flash. She storms from the room, having learned a graceful lope in disturbingly tall heels with dramatically tight dresses. "Come on, Gabriel," she hisses out of habit. He turns obediantly, a lithe shadow following a glistening gold slice of heaven.

"The nerve of these people," she confesses to him in the elevator. He nods, more than fully understanding. She looks up at him beneath a thick layer of make up, eyes glittering with unspilled water. "What am I supposed to do?" She implores. He laughs outright, and it shames him to see the hurt it causes so clearly in her vulnerable eyes. "Aren't you supposed to know? Isn't that _your_ ability?" she bites angrily, averting those tender windows of the soul. A lump forms in his throat, "If I knew, I doubt that I would have made as many mistakes as I have..."

She leans into him, head still down, and he can smell all the products all over her, but underneath is the blood, sweat, and tears of Claire. "Is this a mistake, too?" she asks him quietly. Gabriel's heart pounds in his chest. He has no idea how to answer, so he answers honestly, "Can _you_ tell _me_?" The rumble in his chest travels through her ear and straight to her nerves, causing her nipples to tighten beneath her sleek designer dress all glitzy black. That small heart-shaped pout opens at the tender juncture between his neck and shoulder. He has to resist the urge to move in any way-from groping to kissing to pinning her to the wall. He moans instead. When the elevator door opens, she flees with doe-like precision, and he follows suit because it is what is expected of him. He is supposed to be following Claire Bennet around. It's his job.

Noah Bennet's chicken salad warms in the afternoon sun, but he doesn't seem interested in the least. No, his interests lie in the tabloids spread across the table showing various images of Claire Bennet and Gabriel Gray within questionably intimate proximity. The pictures are ambiguous enough that Claire's red-hot anger is almost warranted, but there is no way to deny the hawkish way Gabriel fawns over her-the unnecessary closeness. Her manicured nails click repeatedly against her Long Island Iced Tea, and her blonde hair hangs in her face haphazardly silky-straight today. Gabriel sits a few tables over carefully perusing an ancient book behind gaudy black sunglasses, a matching drink at his elbow.

"Make me believe you, Claire," her adopted father tells her sternly. Claire's round face is starting to get quite a bit of strength in her jaw from all the frustrated clenching she does. She grits out tersely, "Make _you_ believe _me_?" She can almost feel Gabriel gloating several feet away, but he appears passively reading. "You are kidding, right?" she growls quietly. The warning in her father's tone is too much for her. He doesn't get past her name before she has bolted again. All the love and forgiveness in the world will not keep these people from consistently manipulating and attempting to control her. "It doesn't even matter what's going on, does it? You've already made up your mind about us Petrellis!" she snaps before making it far enough away to have truly escaped. Noah Bennet sits dumbfounded-aware that he has hurt his daughter, but unable to conquer the chasm between them. Tall, dark, and lanky stalks after his child, throwing a smirk his way.

In the parking lot she has already asked the valet to summon the car, and stands wringing her hands nervously. "I don't understand how it could all..." Tears are burgeoning in her young eyes again. He wants to console her, but is unsure how without some latent dishonesty. "I love you," he says quietly. Gabriel blanches in the long, quiet moment after his uttered confession. The tears that slip down her face make him wish for rain on this bright sunny day.

"You reek of the boy," his low, savage growl only accentuates her terrified trembling. A bowie knife in either shoulder pins her to the wall, and she is grateful to not feel the pain. The terror is more than enough. A high-pitched whistling sound had been meant to waylay her struggles, but she had screamed in agony in response. Instead, this doddering creature weaves in front of her. Wheezing and trembling himself, the monster reaches out a brittle hand to grasp onto the knife in her left shoulder to support his weight. "Not his hands," he gasps, "no, he doesn't touch you, but he's always near you. I can smell him." A very familiar smirk curves the predator's lips, "You must be his cheerleader."

Claire's lips curl into her trademark sneer, offering no more than she would any villain. He laughs in her face, all stinking tobacco rot. A third knife appears from within his jacket. Claire's breath hitches, a small amount of blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. "Let's see those secrets, girl," he hacks out hoarsely, knife wavering dangerously during the pulmonary fit. He brings the knife to her forehead. Claire has passed a state in which she might have prayed. Peter will never rescue her. Her fathers have consistently let her down-and traded her to the government. She has become resigned to her fate as victim.

"She's mine," his voice would be almost unrecognizable if she had not heard the demonic growl years before-back when this man went by a different name. "Sylar," she gasps fiercely. Gabriel's eyes shoot to hers and back to the hunched form of Samson Gray, attempting to stand rigid grasping the handle of his oxygen tank. The heat in the pit of Claire's abdomen is hard to deny under his dark gaze. He came for her. "Do you think I am going to make this easy for you, son?" Samson states evenly. Claire doesn't have to see to know what has happened. As Gabriel answers just as even with a simple negative, Samson gurgles and his deceptively strong hands fly to his throat in an attempt to stymie the blood flow.

She is eye to eye with him, pinned to the wall like a specimen, and she laughs through the blood pouring down her chin. "My hero," she tells him. He jerks the first bowie knife from the wall, watching her face from oh-so-close. She smiles, waiting patiently to be let down. He jerks the second knife from the wall, dropping it to the floor and catching her in his arms. "You're alright," he says quietly. "I know who that is," she whispers. "I read your file," she admits. He hushes her, pressing her bloody blonde hair beneath his chin and holding her to him.

If the limo driver is disturbed by the fact that, the last time he saw his passengers, Claire's cashmere cardigan was a pristine white, he disguises it thoroughly. Gabriel fully expects Claire to withdraw. She's admitted to reading his file; he wonders when it is appropriate to admit he has read hers as well. He knows what she did to the young man that tried to rape her and succeeded in showing her the sweet spot on her tender sixteen year old body-oh, how that makes his blood boil despite her vengeance. He also knows of her multiple failed attempts at assuaging to her father's belittling fallacy of normalcy-small outbreaks of rebellion in attempts to interact with other specials during her free pass and the like.

Claire surprises him, though, by laying her head on his chest and tangling her short silken legs with his long dark limbs, high heels raising her knees and bloody skirt hiking up with the angle. "I can hear your heartbeat," she mumbles into his pressed buttondown, her blood stains disguised by the black fabric. "Just you and me forever, you say?" She mutters sleepily. "Anything you want," he croons into the crown of her blonde hair. She is drifting at the edge of consciousness and only his acute hearing allows him to catch her nearly breathless reply, "I think I might be starting to get used to the idea."

Her hotel room is pre-darkened for them from a phone call, and he carries her bride-style to the bed. Gabriel is surprised by her sudden wakefulness when he makes to leave. "Please..." she begs, and he wonders if she even knows what she is asking. Claire's small hands begin to pull at her bloodied clothes, nails red beneath the edges. She shrieks in frustration. Gabriel calmly places his warm large hands over hers, stilling her trembling fingers. He deftly unhinges the buttons of her cardigan, freeing her from the constraining evidence. She looks up at him, uncertainty dancing in daunting emeralds.

His tone is gentle, conspiring, "What do you want, Claire?" Her lower lip trembles, her cupid's bow mouth succulently enticing. "_Am I_ yours?" She whispers. Her tone is urgent, and unshed tears bely any intentions. His brown eyes study her face, traversing from her delicate brows down the petite line of her nose to those perfect pink lips. He licks his lips, and her mouth parts in answer. He lowers his mouth to hers, open and wanting. She groans into the wet hot pleasure of it, and his hands grasp at her waist passionately, pulling her body to his.

"I'm filthy," she grouses tearfully. His smile is so gentle, benign, that it only seems to tenderize her wounded heart further. His gentle watchmaster's hands travail her legs with the lightest of touches, unfastening her shoes and dropping them off the bed absentmindedly. He pulls her to the bathroom, pushing her forward and alternately pressing her against him, reminding her with his body of his support. The lights in the bathroom are glaring, making the gore on her light pink dress uncanny. Callous-less fingers follow the opening behind her zipper, and the tremor it induces strikes the most poignant of sweet notes in her lower abdomen. It reminds of her of the sweet agony she would feel after hours of laying face to face with West, her panties soaked and yearning for something she couldn't truly define.

Her bloody panties and bra are innocently pink, and he suddenly feels dirty all over again. She's so young, so vulnerable. Matted mascara frames her begging eyes as she asks silently for his approval of her body, looking for reassurance that no amount of damage has made her unworthy. "You're beautiful," he breathes to her forehead hugging her against him grasping at the last vestiges of alacrity to sainthood as they abandon him. He wants to tell her he can't believe she would have given such a virtuous gift to the coffee boy, but it would be irreverent and completely spoil the mood.

"I don't feel it," she sobs brokenly, "I don't feel anything!" His brow furrows and he reaches behind her, pulling her bra strap out and snapping it decisively. She gasps, face reddened and glares up at him. Her bright shining eyes appear shocked. "You felt that," he snarks. "I can't feel pain. He put that knife through me... I'm not even human!" She has become overwrought again, and her shrieks wound him in ways he cannot describe. "Let's not think too much of ourselves," he chuckles. "Pain is weakness, Claire, and you are perfect. Perfectly made and perfectly engineered. If you insist, however, that it is a necessity to your humanity I can...offer you an alternative." The young blonde is indeed still plenty naive to not find the innuendo appropriately explanatory.

"Anything," her breathless gasps and wide vulnerable eyes are causing twinges in all the places that define his manhood. "You want to be mine?" He growls. He can feel her pebbled nipples through his shirt and he slides a hand down her back again, resting at the waist of her panties. "Yes," her eyes close, face upturned. The water in the shower kicks on without assistance. Gabriel's steady hands unclasp her bra, hands ghosting over her shoulders and slowly dragging the lingerie down her arms. She moans at the feeling of her naked tits against him. Those gentle hands continue to ghost over her sensitive flesh, tickling down her back and hooking his thumbs into the waist of her panties sliding them down.

Claire's small mouth surges upward to capture his, and she presses her lithe naked form up the length of him crushing him into the wall. Her hands tug in his tousled hair before scratching down to the buttons of his shirt and attempting to tear at them. He stills her frenzied efforts, catching her hands in his own before aptly stripping himself of his clothing with quick efficiency. Claire feels like the world has caught fire. She has never been so turned on in her life, and she can't imagine being like this with anyone else. The hot water sluices down her voluptuous form, pink rivulets trickling from the ends of her breasts. He runs his hands through her hair over and over, washing the blood clean before returning to his slow perusal of her amazingly tone body.

Her face and chest are flushed beautifully and she looks up at him, still innocent and perfect despite all the violence wrought upon her. Claire's skin tingles as though electricity travels up and down every nerve in her body with every brush of wet skin on skin. Too wound in her own emotions to really study him, Claire pulls back to have a good long look. His face is just as flush as hers, dark hair wet and nested in every direction, his broad shoulders and muscular chest cut to sharp hips with an impressive erection jutting proudly, his shapely legs and narrow feet are more graceful than she thought he would be. He's beautiful.

"I want you," she tells him. Gabriel Gray is nearly past the point of reason, always a passionate man, but his natural inclination demands more from her. "Say it," he demands. "What if it isn't true?" Her lower lip quivers. Fear of massacre? Fear of abandonment? "Say it," he pleads bringing his face close to hers, eyes locked on luscious kiss swollen lips. "I love you," she gasps again when her wet breasts slide against his hard chest. No tingle. At least, not anywhere other than his impossibly hard cock. "Please," she begs, looking for more between his hot kisses.

He carries them without any preamble to the bed, unconcerned with their soaked state. Hot, wet bodies sink into the soft bedding. Hands and mouths explore wantonly, searching for the next step. Finally, one of Gabriel's long hands leaves off stimulating a pinkened distended nipple to cup her mound. Claire's juices soak her soft curls and she whines pitifully at the sensation of his hand on her swollen, tender bud of nerves. He smiles with her nipple between his lips. "So wet," he compliments. "Gabriel," she answers desperately.

He places the head of his cock at her entrance, parting slickened lips tentatively. "Oh, _Gabriel_," Claire moans hotly. He pauses completely, panting openly and studying her face waiting for her eyes to come to his. When those beautiful green eyes finally find him he presses forward steadily. Claire's cheeks flush a gorgeous purple, curving perfectly around her bones-it spreads to her chest and her mouth hangs agape. Gabriel pulls back slowly and pushes forward again, sliding easily in the incredibly tight passage. The small blonde writhes and squeaks beneath him, moaning and crying out his name passionately.

He keeps his steady rhythm for what seems like hours to Claire. She discovers as the time extends that he was right-this is an alternative. Her back arches involuntarily, legs wrapping around him before her heels slam back to the bed thrusting herself back against him. Her nails claw up his back before fisting in his hair. He knows it is coming. Gabriel can feel her winding up around him. Her teeth scrape his collar bone and it nearly makes him go, but he reigns it in again. "You're so tight," he tells her and she cries out wordlessly in response, arching again. She begs him outright, pleading and crying his name, so he surrenders. Plunging at a slight angle he finds her most perfect spot and she quakes in sudden stillness around him.

Her orgasm is violent. She tears at his hair wildly, mouthing his throat and biting down. She jerks him by his hair to her mouth and plunders with abandon. Her tongue fucking his mouth with orgasmic passion is more than enough. If he hadn't been trapped some expletive might have escaped to the holy heavens. Instead he moans headily into her mouth, emptying inside her. "I love you," he says again, willing her to believe him. They are panting and sweating and she looks up at him, glowing and wild. "Can we live like this?" She asks him, serious but still panting. "I'll live any way you want," he answers breathlessly.

Claire supposes it doesn't really matter. Every time she turns around the whole world has been redefined. They have already accused her of it, so why can't it be true? Why can't she love this former mad man? She pulls her blonde hair into some semblance of order over one shoulder and looks up at him still firmly planted between her toned thighs, "am I yours?" Gabriel steadies his breathing, studying her face again from top to bottom as though he could never memorize it. "As long as you'll have me, I'll never leave you," he promises.

"Fuck me again, right now," she tells him with unnaturally dark eyes. "Is this fucking?" he teases. "I thought it was making love." She allows him to kiss down her jaw, moaning at the sensation before grabbing a fistful of his glorious silken hair and jerking his head back to bare his throat to her. "Alright, we made love. Now fuck me," she demands, sinking her teeth in. His cock had barely begun to lose interest, but he is now at full attention once again and so thrusts into her with matching ferocity. Two ones too lonely to be single, now a duo. Funny how time flies.


End file.
